Chapter 668

The Baku wind, a constant presence in Leyla's life, whipped through the narrow streets, carrying with it the scent of the Caspian Sea and something else, something acrid and unsettling that she could not quite place.

She pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders, the vibrant silk a splash of color against the grey stone buildings. Usually, she found comfort in the familiar sounds of her city – the distant calls to prayer, the chatter of vendors in the market, the rhythmic clang of metal from the coppersmiths.

Tonight, however, a heavy stillness seemed to press down, muting the usual sounds, leaving a hollow echo in their place.

Leyla worked late at the tea house, a small, family-owned establishment tucked away in the Old City. It was more than just a job; it was a part of her, ingrained in her being like the taste of black tea and the smell of spices that always clung to her clothes.

The samovar hissed softly in the corner, its steam curling into the air, a fragile dance against the growing unease that tugged at the edge of Leyla's awareness.

The last customer had long since gone, leaving behind the lingering aroma of honey and cardamom. Leyla began to tidy up, stacking the small, handleless cups, wiping down the worn wooden tables.

Her grandmother, who owned the tea house, had already gone home, her steps slower these days, her stories of old Baku becoming more frequent, as if she were trying to hold onto the past with a firmer grip.

A scratching sound from outside the back door made Leyla pause. It was not the sound of a stray cat; it was too deliberate, too insistent. She stood still, listening, the silence inside the tea house amplifying the noise from outside.

The scratching stopped. Leyla held her breath, her heart quickening its pace. Then, a soft thump, like something heavy falling against the door.

She told herself it was the wind, playing tricks in the alleyway. Baku winds were known for their unpredictable nature, capable of turning the mundane into something menacing. Still, a prickle of unease crawled up her spine.

She moved towards the back door, her steps hesitant, each creak of the wooden floorboards sounding unnaturally loud in the quiet space.

The back door led to a narrow, unlit alleyway, usually filled with the scent of damp earth and discarded crates.

Tonight, the alley was plunged in an unnatural darkness, the usual spill of light from the nearby streetlamps absent. The air felt colder here, heavier, as if the shadows themselves had substance.

Leyla reached for the latch, her fingers trembling slightly. She hesitated. Should she open it? What if it was just the wind? But what if it wasn't? The thump came again, softer this time, almost like a gentle nudge. It was not the wind.

Taking a deep breath, Leyla pulled back the latch and slowly eased the door open. The darkness in the alley seemed to rush in, swallowing the faint light from the tea house. She peered out, straining her eyes to see through the gloom. Nothing. Just the alley, silent and still, swallowed by the night.

Relief washed over her, quickly followed by a sharp wave of self-reproach for her foolishness. It had been nothing. Just her imagination, amplified by the late hour and the strange stillness of the night. She stepped out into the alleyway, intending to close the door behind her and forget the whole incident.

As she turned to reach for the door handle, she glanced down. And froze.

There, on the uneven cobblestones, just outside the doorway, was a shoe. A single shoe. A child's shoe, small and worn, made of dark leather, the laces undone. It looked as if it had been hastily discarded, or perhaps, lost in a hurry.

Leyla knelt down, her fingers brushing against the cool leather. Where had it come from? This alley was rarely used, tucked away behind the tea house, mostly serving as a storage space for deliveries. It was not a place where a child would normally be.

She picked up the shoe, turning it over in her hands. It was dusty, but otherwise in good condition. Lost, then? But why just one? And why here, in the dead of night? A cold dread began to seep into her bones, a feeling that was far more potent than simple unease.

She went back inside, the child's shoe clutched tightly in her hand. The warm, familiar space of the tea house now felt different, tainted by the discovery in the alleyway. She placed the shoe on the counter, staring at it as if it held some terrible secret.

It was then she noticed it. A subtle change in the air, a whisper of something wrong that she could not quite grasp. The scent of spices seemed fainter, replaced by a metallic tang, almost like blood, but diluted, barely there. And the stillness, it was more profound now, pressing in, suffocating.

Leyla looked down at her own feet, clad in simple leather slippers. They felt heavy, strangely detached, as if they were not quite her own. She wiggled her toes, trying to dispel the unsettling sensation, but it persisted.

She had heard whispers, of course. Everyone in Baku had. Stories told in hushed tones, dismissed as old wives' tales, meant to frighten children into obedience.

Stories about the Foot Thief. A creature that stole people's feet in the night, leaving them crippled, broken, their lives forever altered. She had always scoffed at them, dismissing them as folklore, nothing more than fanciful stories.

But now, holding a child's shoe found in a darkened alleyway, with an inexplicable metallic scent in the air and a strange detachment in her own limbs, the stories did not seem so far-fetched. The unease solidified into something colder, sharper – fear.

Leyla decided to close the tea house early. She could not stay here alone, not tonight. She turned off the samovar, extinguishing its gentle hiss, and locked the front door, the sound of the bolt sliding into place echoing unnaturally loud in the silence.

As she walked home through the darkening streets, she kept glancing at her feet, a nervous habit she could not control. Each step felt uncertain, as if she were no longer sure of the ground beneath her.

The Baku wind seemed to whisper around her, no longer comforting, but mocking, laced with a chilling edge.

The streets were mostly deserted now, only a few late-night stragglers hurrying home. The usual sounds of the city were gone, replaced by an oppressive quiet that felt unnatural, expectant. Leyla quickened her pace, her heart pounding in her chest, a frantic drumbeat against the heavy silence.

She lived with her grandmother in a small apartment not far from the tea house, in one of the older districts of the city. The apartment was old, the walls thick and stone, the windows small and deep-set. It felt safe, a refuge from the outside world. Tonight, however, even the familiar comfort of her home felt tainted by the creeping dread.

Her grandmother was already asleep, her breathing slow and even. Leyla did not want to wake her, did not want to share the fear that gnawed at her insides. She went to her own room, a small space filled with books and the scent of dried lavender.

She sat on the edge of her bed, taking off her slippers. Her feet felt colder now, almost numb. She rubbed them, trying to restore some feeling, but the coldness persisted, spreading upwards, like icy tendrils creeping up her legs.

She looked at her feet again, scrutinizing them in the dim light filtering through the window. They looked normal, ordinary. But something felt different, alien. It was as if they were slowly fading, becoming less substantial, less real.

The metallic scent was stronger here, in her room, clinging to the air, sharp and unsettling. Leyla stood up, pacing restlessly, trying to shake off the fear that was tightening its grip. She needed to do something, anything, to break free from this growing terror.

She thought of the child's shoe, still lying on the counter at the tea house. It was a clue, wasn't it? A clue to the Foot Thief, to the stories she had always dismissed. Maybe, just maybe, there was some truth to them after all.

Driven by a desperate need for answers, Leyla decided to go back to the tea house. She had to see the shoe again, had to look for anything else, anything that might make sense of this growing nightmare.

She slipped on her slippers, her movements jerky, almost frantic. She crept out of her apartment, making sure not to wake her grandmother. The hallway outside was dark, silent, the air thick with an oppressive stillness that mirrored the one in the city streets.

As she stepped outside, the cold night air hit her like a physical blow. The metallic scent was overpowering now, filling her nostrils, making her eyes water. And the silence, it was absolute, deafening. Not even the Baku wind whispered tonight.

The streets were deserted, shrouded in darkness, the buildings looming like silent sentinels. Leyla walked quickly, her breath catching in her throat, her heart hammering against her ribs. The fear was no longer a creeping dread; it was a raw, visceral terror that threatened to overwhelm her.

As she neared the tea house, she saw something that made her stop dead in her tracks. There, in the middle of the street, bathed in the faint light of a distant streetlamp, was another shoe. Just like the first one, small and worn, made of dark leather, the laces undone.

But this one was different. This one was covered in mud, and something darker, something that glistened faintly in the dim light. Something that looked like blood.

Leyla's breath hitched in her throat. She stared at the shoe, her mind reeling, the whispers of the old stories echoing in her ears, louder now, clearer, more terrifying than ever before. The Foot Thief was real. And it was here.

She looked down at her own feet again, her blood turning to ice. They were fading. She could see it now, with sickening clarity. They were becoming translucent, the cobblestones beneath them visible through the fading outlines of her slippers. The coldness had spread further, reaching her knees, numbing her legs, stealing her senses.

Panic seized her, a wild, desperate urge to run, to escape, to get away from this night, from this city, from the encroaching horror that was stealing her very being. But her legs felt heavy, unresponsive, as if they were rooted to the spot.

She tried to move, to take a step, but her feet would not obey. They were fading faster now, disappearing inch by inch, the coldness rising, consuming her.

Tears streamed down her face, hot against her freezing skin. She looked around, desperate for help, for someone, anyone. But the streets were empty, silent, swallowed by the encroaching darkness. She was alone.

The metallic scent was overwhelming now, suffocating her, the silence pressing in, crushing her. She could feel the coldness reaching her hips, her waist, stealing the sensation from her body, leaving her numb, detached, fading.

She closed her eyes, a single sob escaping her lips, a sound swallowed by the oppressive stillness of the Baku night.

She thought of her grandmother, asleep in their warm apartment, unaware of the horror unfolding in the streets. She thought of the tea house, the familiar scent of spices, the comforting hiss of the samovar, all fading now, like her feet, like her life, disappearing into the darkness.

When she opened her eyes again, the street was empty. The two small, worn shoes lay on the cobblestones, alone in the silence, mute testaments to a terror unseen, a horror unheard, a theft complete.

The Baku wind, finally stirring, whispered through the empty streets, carrying with it the scent of the Caspian Sea, the acrid tang of blood, and the fading echo of a silent scream.

The city remained, indifferent, unaware, waiting for the dawn, while Leyla was gone, leaving behind only the chilling legend of the Foot Thief and the empty spaces where her feet used to be.